


Victory Shots

by shadow_lover



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drunk kiss, Hiding in a supply closet, Hungover Kiss, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Rostelecom, Rivals to Awkward Crushes, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-07 08:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15215234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: “I don’t like you,” Yuri says, because JJ seems to have forgotten this important tenet of their relationship.“I know,” JJ says. “You never like me. Do you like vodka?”





	Victory Shots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashii Black (ashiiblack)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashiiblack/gifts).



> Happy RSOI, Ashii! Thank you for the prompts - I was thrilled to get this assignment :)

As Yuri returns to the hotel from the blue-dark night, he feels for the first time since the free skate a sense of satisfaction. Giving Yuuri the pirozhkis was the right thing to do. The man looked fucked up, and Yuri’s too sick and exhausted to eat anything tonight anyway.

The satisfaction is fleeting.

Fuck. He gave the skate of his life, and it wasn’t enough for gold. He wants to laugh. Once again, he had to stand on the podium beneath to JJ’s stupid grin and obnoxious biceps, the silver heavy around his neck.

Now, his exhaustion is so all-consuming he’s floating with it. He’s empty of everything else. He makes it to the elevator on autopilot. The doors start closing as he’s trying to remember his floor through his mental fog.

Before they can close, a hand flies to hold them open, and the worst voice in the world rings cheerfully through the elevator: “Sorry, if I could just—”

JJ pauses in the doorway, almost posed, with a flicker of surprise across his face.

“Princess.” He grins loopily. “You’re up past your bedtime.”

Yuri scowls and backs further into the elevator. “Fuck off.”

JJ does not fuck off. He steps all the way in, taking up way more space than is rightfully his. He’s taller, sure, he’s hit like three more growth spurts than Yuri, but that doesn’t account for the way the entire elevator warms with his grin. It’s disgusting.

His fingers hover over the buttons. “What floor are you on?” His eyes are red, and his face is pink. He’s drunk.

“I said fuck off.” Yuri considers a kick and run. But getting to the door involves getting _closer_ to that asshole, so… “Eight.”

JJ takes forever to press the button. There’s a weird look of concentration on his face, and then he presses a single button. “Same as me.” He smiles like this is a conversation instead of a necessity.

Yuri is almost drunk with exhaustion, high on some weird altruism thing after giving the pirozhkis to Yuuri. The English word rolls off his tongue almost as easily as _fuck off_ —both are integral phrases for international competition— “Congrats.”

JJ stares at him like he’s speaking Russian anyway, which is fucking hilarious. “What?”  
“Congrats on gold.” Since JJ genuinely looks like he’s about to have a heart attack, Yuri takes pity and tacks on, “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Thanks.” That blinding smile flashes again, but it soon fades to a more serious expression. Something less obnoxious. Something dangerously close to _nice_ “You were great out there, you know.”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Leroy.” Yuri has to look away, because this is getting weird. Fuck, he needs to sleep.

The elevator bumps and settles. The doors _ding_ open. Yuri shoves his hands in his pockets and slouches out past JJ.

Tries to, anyway. He’s stopped short by a giant Canadian hand around his elbow. “Hey,” JJ says. “We should celebrate.”

Yuri has no idea what JJ means. No idea why his hand feels so damn warm even through layers of fabric, or why he can feel that touch shooting up his nerves. “Fuck off, asshole.”

“Come on. Everyone else is asleep. Let’s toast my victory. Uh. Our victories.”

“I don’t like you,” Yuri says, because JJ seems to have forgotten this important tenet of their relationship.

“I know,” JJ says. “You never like me. Do you like vodka?” He leans in so close Yuri has to look up into his stupid face. It’s a public hallway. Anyone could walk by and see them standing _way too close_.

Yuri tells himself that’s why he says, “Ugh. Fine,” and lets JJ lead him down the hall.

JJ has to let go of him to fumble with the keycard, and even then, Yuri’s still hot with the memory of touch. They stumble into a dark room, crowded with two beds and two piles of luggage. JJ flips on a bedside lamp, then heads for the mini fridge.

“Where’s your roommate?” Yuri asks.

“Fucking an ice dancer.” JJ slowly and carefully clinking a bottle onto the dresser. “Or three. They invited me to join.”

It’s still warm. Really warm in here. Yuri shrugs off his coat, then moves to where JJ’s unwrapping two plastic water cups. He shouldn’t be doing this. He’s drained as it is. Tomorrow’s the exhibition skate. But he’d look fucking dumb to back out now.

JJ pours unsteadily, and one cup has twice as much vodka as the other. Yuri grabs the smaller cup. Maybe he can get JJ drunk enough to completely fuck up the exhibition.

“To my Grand Prix Final gold,” Yuri declares, holding the plastic cup high.

“To wishful thinking,” JJ corrects, but he’s smiling as he clicks his cup against Yuri’s.

Yuri rolls his eyes and knocks it back. He can’t restrain the grimace—this is cheap as fuck. He shouldn’t be doing this, and he doesn’t like JJ, but warmth rushes through him, and JJ’s smiling. Somehow that’s worth the awful burn in the back of his throat. 

He starts to say something and forgets the words. He feels dizzy. JJ isn’t taking his eyes off him, and Yuri doesn’t know if he’s ever seen JJ truly _look_ at another person before. Like the alcohol has softened his shell of narcissism—it’s the first time Yuri has thought that might be a shell, and not just who he is.

“I was serious earlier,” JJ says, before Yuri can think of anything. “You skated the best I’ve ever seen you. You looked really good.” He steps forward.

Yuri doesn’t step back. He doesn’t back down for anyone or anything and definitely not this asshole. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I couldn’t look away,” JJ says, like it’s a secret. His red face is too close, and suddenly Yuri’s face is on fire. It takes him a second to realize the heat is JJ’s hand on his face. Fingertips on his jaw, holding him steady, as he leans in.

The moment hangs eternal, like he’s on the ice and jumping and realizing on takeoff that he’s not going to land this. He has time to catalog JJ’s flushed face, his messed-up hair gel, the way his shirt shifts over his shoulders, before JJ kisses him.

It’s wet and warm and disgusting. Yuri panics. Shocked still, he opens his mouth to tell him off, but JJ only takes the opening to slip his tongue inside. JJ’s hand on his cheek is damp with sweat, and his tongue is _slimy_. Yuri can’t breathe.

Yuri slams his hands against JJ’s chest. Rocks back on his heels, braces his arms, and JJ’s heart races under his palms in tandem with his own panicked pulse.

“What the fuck,” Yuri says, voice too high.

JJ’s face is pale now, only hints of red cresting his cheeks, and his lips are—his lips are wet. “I can explain.”

“What the _fuck_.”

JJ looks like he’s going to be sick. “Okay, I can’t explain.”

Yuri doesn’t want an explanation. He stumbles back, and his palms burn with cold when he’s no longer touching JJ. He can still feel him all over. His skin crawls. He feels dizzy. He has to get out before he does something stupid like break that bottle over JJ’s head—

Or try again.

“You’re the world’s worst kisser,” he informs JJ’s stupid shocked face, then grabs his coat and flees.

***

They both suck at the exhibition the next day.

JJ sucks worse.

The fucked-up thing is Yuri can’t even be smug about it, because he’s too busy lounging with his teammates and pretending to be looking anywhere but the ice as JJ skates.

He sees what he always sees: flashy moves, smart planning. The jumps go high enough to catch the audience’s cheers, but they’re doubles today. Yuri’s seen JJ pull a quad in exhibition because he’s a reckless showoff—sorry, _the dramatic timing of the music demanded he add a quad for his integrity as an artist_ , as he beamed in the interview after.

Not that Yuri pays attention to JJ’s interviews if he can help it. It’s not his fault the guy’s _everywhere_.

He’s definitely not paying attention to him today. He spends ten minutes on the perfect filter for a latergram photo of Potya, and he doesn’t give a fuck about JJ Leroy and his stupid awful kissing.

The crowd roars. Keeps roaring. A familiar voice rings out, annoying as always, with that stupid catchphrase. As the applause dies down, Yuri buries his nose in his phone and braces himself—

For nothing. No insults, no mocking friendliness. JJ comes off the ice and talks to his coaches and teammates and doesn’t say a word to Yuri.

 _He’s ignoring me too_ , Yuri realizes, with a weird pang along his spine.

They ignore each other so well that neither notices how close they’ve gotten until a photographer waves them down. “Let me get a photo of our gold and silver medalists!”

By the time Yuri looks up in horror, JJ’s in full media mode, blinding smile and all. Yuri considers running, but a withering glare from Lilia stops him in his tracks. He forces himself still as JJ leans in for the photo.

For one brief moment, his hand is on Yuri’s waist. Up under the hem of his team jacket, burning hot through the thin material of his exhibition costume. Then the photographer’s gone, and Yuri still can’t move.

JJ has the gall to _smirk_ before he’s gone too.

***

There is no polite opportunity to remove JJ from the banquet, but Yuri doesn’t need a polite opportunity. He needs one furtive glass of champagne before he storms into JJ’s gaggle of sycophants and seizes him by the arm.

“We’re talking now,” Yuri announces to the crowd, without meeting JJ’s eyes. He tugs JJ’s arm, steadfastly ignoring the solid warmth of muscle under suit jacket.

JJ doesn’t fight. He looks too hungover to fight. He lets Yuri drag him from the banquet, down the hallway, and around a corner. Yuri half-shoves him as he lets go. Shakes out his hand where it tingles.

They face each other down silently for what feels like an hour before JJ says, “Well.”

“Well what,” Yuri snaps. His arms cross.

JJ takes a deep breath. “You’re the one who said we’re talking.”

Right. Whatever. Sure, he said that, but this is still JJ’s fault. Yuri’s distraction, his lack of balance, the way his neck’s itching with heat under his shirt collar. “This is all your fault,” he repeats out loud, because that seems like a good place to start. “You need to stop staring at me and getting too close and avoiding me.”

“That doesn’t make sense. You want me to stop avoiding you, but also stay away?”

“Exactly.” JJ is an _idiot_. Especially right now, with the way his teeth dig briefly into his lower lip, and the faint flex of his jaw. The way he keeps being tall and hot in Yuri’s general vicinity.

JJ looks down the empty hall. There’s no one there to see him smirk, and no one there to see him lean in closer. “Yuri.” He’s way too close, and his eyes are stupidly blue. “Are you mad I kissed you, or mad you ran away?”

Yuri backs up a step. “I didn’t run away,” he says, even though he’s backing up as he speaks. His suit jacket is far too warm. His heel hits the baseboard, then his shoulders press against the wall, and JJ’s leaning over him with one palm flat beside his shoulder. They aren’t touching anywhere, but the scant space between them hums.

JJ murmurs, and Yuri is captivated by the slow move of his lips, “In case you were wondering, I kiss way better sober.”

He’s an idiot, but Yuri’s even more of one, because he tilts his chin up and glares into JJ’s wide, dark eyes and whispers, “Prove it.”

JJ reaches and rubs his thumb over Yuri’s lower lip, leaving a tingling warmth, and—

Footsteps down the hall.

JJ jumps away, but Yuri is way too far gone to allow that. He grabs JJ by the collar, feels his throat jump against his knuckles, and pulls him for the nearest door. They slam into the supply closet, and the door’s barely closed behind them when Yuri’s hands are in JJ’s hair and JJ’s hands are digging into his ass and they’re kissing.

They move slowly. Urgently. When Yuri opens his mouth, JJ pulls back, nips his lower lip, kisses the corner of his mouth, before pressing fully against him. Yuri groans and leans in.

Fuck. Okay. JJ’s actually amazing at this.

The realization is offensive. Yuri attempts to regain the upper hand by shoving JJ against the wall. Something clatters to the ground, and they both freeze.

“Shh.” JJ’s fingertip presses against Yuri’s lips. He leans in and whispers hot in Yuri’s ear, “Stay quiet or I’ll stop.”

“Stop _wh_ —” 

JJ’s palm seals the rest of the question inside his mouth. Yuri swallows hard as JJ’s other hand runs down his side. JJ fumbles with his belt buckle and slips his hand inside Yuri’s pants.

“This okay, baby?”

With his mouth covered, Yuri can’t answer, _Don’t call me baby_. All he can do is grab JJ’s solid forearm and hold him in place, a silent command not to _move_ from where his palm presses against Yuri’s stomach and his fingers graze Yuri’s cock.

“Great.” JJ slides his hand and twists, and Yuri’s completely engulfed in his hot grip. Yuri can’t help gasping—perversely glad of JJ’s hand over his mouth—as JJ moves. As JJ says, “I like you like this.”

His hand moves again, and Yuri moves with it. The slightest touch rings all the way through him. He rocks into JJ’s hand, and somehow JJ’s low, infuriating voice going on makes this even better. He’s saying the stupidest shit— _I like you when you’re angry too. Fuck, babe, you like that?_ —and fuck, Yuri’s into it.

Then JJ leans in, and his hand moves from Yuri’s mouth to fist in his hair. His lips press wet against Yuri’s neck. He kisses down to Yuri’s collarbone, twists up on Yuri’s cock, and Yuri breaks. He comes with a groan, pressing his own hand over his mouth to muffle it. Arches up into JJ, who doesn’t stop moving until Yuri slumps back against the wall, every ounce of energy gone from him.

JJ pulls his hand from Yuri’s pants. In the darkness, Yuri feels his arm move, and then hears a wet sound, and realizes JJ’s licking his hand clean. Disgusting. 

Yuri would give anything to watch him do it.

But he’ll probably knock over a mop or twelve if he tries fumbling for a light switch. And he doesn’t need a light to feel something even more interesting: JJ is hard against his hip. He’s as into this as Yuri is, which is strangely relieving. Yuri wonders what JJ’s cock would feel like in his hand. How big it really is. He’s never jerked off another guy before, but it can’t be that difficult if this idiot managed to...

Yuri gathers enough breath to talk. “You’re… I can do you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Even in the dark of the supply closet, JJ’s grin is clear in his voice. “I already came first.”

Yuri’s so hazy, he takes a while to process the innuendo. When he does, he curses and hits JJ on the shoulder. Or tries to. JJ catches his wrist and pulls him in, and somehow they’re slumping down to the floor together. It’s cramped, but the wall is solid and steadying at his back, and JJ even more so at his side.

“I’m winning the final,” Yuri says sternly.

JJ laughs, muffled under his hand. “You’re not, but let’s bet on it. If I win…” He pauses long enough for Yuri’s hindbrain to helpfully provide options like blowjobs, bondage, weird costumes, and dick pics. Then continues, “I get to take you on a date. Dinner and a movie.”

A date. With JJ. The idea is physically painful.

“You’re disgusting,” Yuri informs him. “But sure. And when I win, I get to pick the movie.”

“You’re not winning. But sure.”

Yuri scowls. Tacks on, “And you have to wear cat ears the entire time.”

“You’re not winning,” JJ repeats, but Yuri thinks he hears an edge of nervousness in there. He’ll take that as a psychological win against the enemy, he thinks. The warm, solid, comfortable enemy whose shoulder he’s leaning his face against. Whose hand is stroking slowly, softly along his inner thigh.

He should go back to the banquet in a minute. Or straight back to his hotel room for a shower. But a few more moments of cuddling and psychological warfare won’t hurt.


End file.
